#(( i'm sorry I'm so sorry

[mariacfrantz]

Nothing lasts forever.

[comerainxcomeshine]

(cr.xx)

[viivdle]

cardan: tzk.. mortals😒

also cardan: mortals...?🤭

[pfhwrittes]

there's magic in this misery - part two

part one is here

link to ao3 here

update: i'm currently reworking this fic as of 29th may 2024. existing parts will be deleted and replaced with an updated version when it's done!

TW: depictions of depression, angst, emotional hurt/no comfort, reader is a bit of a dickhead to johnny, swearing, bonnie lad used as a pet name, unreliable narrator.

pairing: john "soap" mactavish x ftm!reader (he/him pronouns used for reader)

word count: roughly 1k of angst. typos and grammatical errors are still quite likely so i apologise for those.

__

johnny comes back sometime later. it’s not as light behind your drawn curtains and you think you’ve probably fallen asleep at some point. you can tell he’s trying to be quiet but he’s forgotten to take off his boots. his footsteps reverberate through the thin floors and thinner carpet as he moves through the flat into the living room and then back towards the hallway. the downstairs neighbours will probably complain the next time they see you. oh well. 

you resist the urge to check the time so you can berate yourself for wasting another day in bed. lazy, useless, selfish hisses the voice, too cowardly to find out how much of your life you’re wasting. the voice is interrupted by a knock on the door jamb of your bedroom.

“i picked up takeaway on the way home if yer wantin’ any.” it guts you to hear johnny sounding so unsure from the doorway of your bedroom. half in the hallway, half in the gloom. 

“yeah” you pause to clear your throat but the lump that’s taken root persists “that sounds nice.” 

you disentangle yourself from the blanket that’s wrapped itself around your legs like an anchor. a can rattles ominously on the bedside cabinet as you force yourself to stand up and take the first few steps toward johnny. 

johnny just waits in the doorway for you to join him. fuck, it shouldn’t be this hard. you stop just out of arm's reach and wait for him to move so you can shuffle into the living room. 

“can i hug ye?” johnny asks gently.

“i stink, johnny.” the words are barely out of your mouth before he tugs you into his arms. the heat of his chest against your front is nice, as is the broad palm he places on your back. he’s holding you so gently that you could easily pull out of his embrace if you wanted to but you allow yourself to sink into him. to leech the life out of him just for a moment. 

“i don’t care. just want to hold ye for a minute.” he sounds so sad that you immediately feel guilty. it’s your fault he’s feeling like this. if you just tried harder to be normal he wouldn’t have to lie to you. you tense in johnny’s arms hearing that darkly seductive voice again, the one that just won’t seem to let you enjoy any fucking thing even for a single minute. 

fuck. when did get so hard to be a good boyfriend? when did it get so hard to be a good person? you don’t know any more. the slow creeping sadness has taken root in your chest and thoughts and now you’re stuck, tangled up in a mess of misery. 

johnny pulls back and his piercing blue gaze flickers between your own. 

“talk to me. what’s goin’ on in there?”

you swallow. that fucking lump of self hatred still sticks in your throat.

“nothing. i’m fine.”

“i wish ye wouldnae lie tae me bonnie lad.” johnny’s lips twist and he huffs a soft sigh through his nose. “i wish you wouldnae lie to yourself.” 

you blink, stunned for a second before a wave of irritation rises in your chest. 

“what the fuck is that supposed to mean?” you snap. you feel brittle under the weight of your emotion after feeling numb for so long. 

“well, ‘s just that simon says -” you’re too pissed off to even offer a wisp of a smile at johnny’s slip up and cut him off before he can even finish.

“simon? you told simon about me?” you step back from johnny’s warmth. “did you just sit around the pub all afternoon and tell simon how disgusting i am right now?” your voice has risen in volume, keeping step with the rising tide of your irritation."how much of a failure i am?"

johnny jerks back frowning slightly. 

“no, that’s no’ what i’m sayin’ -” johnny rubs a hand over the stubble on his cheek before letting it drop. “just when simon an’ gaz asked where you were -” 

a sardonic laugh erupts from you, noxious and bubbling. you barely recognise it as your own. 

“oh so you told both of them how disappointed you are in me!” you accuse. deep down you know that's not true, that johnny hasn't spent hours flaying you open to two of his closest friends but you can’t seem to stop yourself. why can’t you stop yourself from lashing out? fuck.

“steamin’ jesus! are you gonna let me finish a sentence or no’?” johnny’s face has gone red and his chest is heaving with poorly tempered frustration. you’ve never seen him like this. yes, you’ve bickered before. you’ve even had disagreements before. but you’ve never seen him look so angry and underneath that anger look so hurt. 

your temper flares again, apropos of nothing, and before you know it you’re spewing forth every twisted thought that’s plagued you over the last week. your thoughts spill into the space between the both of you, filling it with bile. with darkness. with a self loathing so strong it coats your tongue and throat, even as you wish you could snatch back every word. until finally you say something so unforgivable johnny’s immense patience with you snaps.

“yer aff yer fuckin’ heid if you think i’m puttin’ up wi’ this!” johnny hurls over his shoulder as he stomps towards the door.

“take the fucking takeaway with you! i don’t even like indian!” you yell as the door to your flat slams closed. “dickhead!”

the silence rings in your ears where you’ve frozen in the threshold of your bedroom and you release a shaky breath, all the anger and hurt that has built up draining away leaving you feeling more numb than before.

you stagger back to bed, the takeaway cooling on the coffee table in the living room forgotten. 

you nudge the bedside cabinet as you clumsily crawl back into bed, limbs heavy. the coke can tips over and you burst into tears. 

well you’ve done it now, croons the voice, you’ve scared off one of the few people that will ever love a headcase like you.

you bury your face into your pillow and sob.

alone.

[connectionterminated13]

Eating dinner then I will finally draw the m preg spawn... I expect to lose exactly 205 followers

[bucky1984]

Some "sorry" Tenth Doctor ❤️ gif and photos

[tkfluff-fanatic]

Eating Turkish food. I'm sorry my ancestors. Forgive me

[mayhems-cannon]

sorry to those who've sent requests rn, but i think my total feasible requests per day might be limited to like. three, cause i'm afraid doing too many at once might just make it stale to me aaaa

[breserker]

todaiba day is odaiba day!

[catboyarg]

FUCK

[climbingthefloors]

obsessed with this baby hippo from thailand's khao khew zoo.. she has been so utterly betrayed by the world

[yourfavecharacterisqueer]

hypothetical scenario for you all: the real king arthur returns. you meet him and you welcome him into your home. what is the first thing you do with him? keep in mind, this is a man from the 500s (he died in 542), and you are from the 21st century (2024).

[kiryuing]

[fallen-goldfishcracker]

Wyll is so fucking funny and no amount of acknowledgement about this could ever be enough. He's literally walking around being so casually hilarious completely under-the-radar. He calls Halsin a "thick hunk of an elf". He once accidently implied that he was fucking an ogre instead of killing it and then proceeded to absolutely stumble his way through explaining. He gets excited by Lae'zel talking about carnal pleasures. He canonically tells his pessimistic thoughts to shut the hell up. He volunteers to babysit Shadowheart's hypothetical werewolf babies as long as she gets him gloves. He tries to give Gale a hero moniker like his own. He jokes that his father, the Grand Duke of Baldur's Gate, can't spell. He calls Astarion "Mister Fangs". He makes up storybook chapter names for his own fucking adventures. As a child he got chased by the Flaming Fist for stealing fruit, nearly drowned trying to find mermaids in the harbor, and almost successfully broke into the Counting House. He reads monster erotica, and is not ashamed to tell you about it. He ranks eating pudding among life's greatest moments. He will, without shame and completely unprompted, meow at you. He is 24 years old.

[thorinds]

1000 Books You May Have Actually Read

[podcastwizard]

this will not be a bridgerton blog but for the foreseeable future i will not be thinking about anything other than bridgerton

(original post @romanceyourdemons)